


called up from the mouth of oblivion

by unheard_secret



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (but i don't have a name for it), Gen, Stiles isn't entirely normal, bamf!stile, beacon hills is home to all things supernatural, in fact that's an understatment, inhuman!stiles, it is also a little gruesome., it's something else entirely, stiles' mom is made of awesome, this is NOT a demon au, this is dark.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:27:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unheard_secret/pseuds/unheard_secret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His smile flew from his mouth with a weak chirrup, staring at the outside world with wide eyes. It was golden, where his mother's was silver, fluttering from his mouth in the shape of a sparrow, rising through the air, singing for the sun. </p><p>[Stiles doesn't know what he is, but he does know what he isn't: he's not human. He's no more human than his werewolf friends are true wolves; he just knows how to fake it really well.]</p><p><b>Warnings:</b> This is <i>dark</i>. Stiles is not nice in this. There is blood, gore, and deliberately inflicted pain. At one point Stiles kills a mouse (and later he kills an alpha or two). Please bear that in mind if you decide to read!</p>
            </blockquote>





	called up from the mouth of oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> It's entirely possible this will make no sense to anyone other than me. It was the product of a very late night and a great deal of sleep deprivation, so it's more than a little mad.
> 
> Un-beta'd. Sorry in advance for the mistakes!

When Stiles was young his mother would take him out into the forest. They would travel deep into the centre, where the trees still remembered the days of the Great Forest and he could hear them whisper all about him. 

Once they reached the centre Stiles' mom would smile at him, a soft tilt at the corner of her mouth, so small it looked like the memory of happiness. The smile would curl into her eyes, shimmer through her body, and finally settle at the corner of her mouth, like a silver butterfly curling from her lips. Then, with a kiss, the smile would be gone, fluttering up into the air, toward the sunlight where it would wait, warmed by the light, until she called it back.

Stiles would wait for his mother to kiss her smile goodbye, giggling as the translucent wisp of silver took shape. He'd watch it disappear into the sky, gazing after it with wide, open eyes. 

He'd wait for his mother to turn to him and say "Your turn, darling. Smile for the world." Then Stiles would smile so broadly he could feel it bubbling in his chest, pushing up his oesophagus, and curling on his tongue just waiting to be released. 

He didn't breath out a butterfly. The butterfly was his mother's alone, delicate and beautiful. Deceptively fragile. His smile flew from his mouth with a weak chirrup, staring at the outside world with wide eyes. It was golden, where his mother's was silver, fluttering from his mouth in the shape of a sparrow, rising through the air, singing for the sun. 

...

Mom always said that Dad couldn't know. She whispered it softly, caressing Stile's hair as they rested in the leaves that covered the forest floor, the great trees towering majestically over them. She made Stile promise not to tell, pressing the warning into him with words that played over his skin, like shackles made from silken rope. 

He promised, earnest and sincere, and the ropes tightened about his wrist and feet, shimmering a moment before sinking into his skin. He could feel them, warmly coiled about his bones. They stroked the ivory white, making his skin tingle with fear. It tickled a little, and Stiles giggled as the ropes tightened, pulling deeper each time his mother made him swear not to tell. 

"I won't tell," he'd say, a laugh on his lips, and the ropes would mark his bones, pull tighter, holding him to his oath.

...

Stiles liked going to the forest. Everything was simple there. Nothing hurt, and the world was filled with adventures just waiting to happen. They lurked about the corner, daring Stiles to find them. There were trees to be climbed, and branches to be explored. Stiles learnt how to travel the treetops with as much ease as he could travel the ground; leaping from one tree to the next, feeling the rasp of bark under his fingers and the solid heart of the tree beating slowly against the soles of his feet. 

The trees would buck and curl under his weight. Branches would sway toward him and the trees would call out as he arrived. _Come to me,_ they would murmur seductively. _I will make you fall._ Stiles always leapt toward the tree that called loudest, welcoming the challenge, wanting to feel his muscles burn and stretch as he fought not to tumble to the ground. 

The oaks liked him least. Their leaves would whip against his face, slicing at his skin, while their trunks would groan with effort as they tried to dislodge him. Stiles would laugh, his voice loud and happy, as he clambered about their branches. _Come join me, Mom,_ he would call down to the ground where his mother followed him slowly on foot. _It tastes like rage._

...

There were also animals to play with in the forest. Hidden and quiet. They watched Stiles and his Mom dance about the forest glades. Stiles didn't play with them often, preferring to run and jump and climb. But they were there to play with when he wanted. Stiles only had to call them by name and they would come. He liked to play with the mice best. They were so delicate and fragile. They tasted sweetest when they died. 

...

He was never allowed to take his soul out when they were at home. Not even when things hurt the most. His Mom would shake her head softly, her dark hair falling over her shoulders in long loose waves. "Not here, Stiles," she would say. "Never here. Your father can never know."

Stiles would grumble and mutter that it wasn't fair. His mother would just send a gentle look in his direction before pulling him toward the back garden where she would teach him all the ways his body could be used, even with his soul burning warmly in his gut. 

She taught him how to turn off pain, and gave him oleander to eat from the tree growing at the very corner of the property. She laughed when he winced at the taste, and gave him cordial spiced with nightshade to wash away the bitterness. 

...

She taught him to fear the house at the northern edge of the woods. She told him about the Hale family, and showed him what they were. 

A year later she showed him how to avoid a werewolf -- 

\-- she also showed him how to kill one.

...

Eventually she began to teach him how to be human. 

...

"You need to feel," she would say. "You need to feel things all the time. You can never turn it off. If you ever turn it off people will begin to suspect. Humans can tell when your emotions are nothing more than a façade. It's the only thing that keeps most of them alive."

With his mom's help Stiles learnt to feel emotions beyond satisfaction and euphoria. He learnt to feel pain, and sorrow, and hatred. He was shown how to let them cross his features, distorting his mouth and making strange shapes from his eyebrows. He was told to feel deeply, and make it obvious. 

He was told to always keep his soul in around humans. Always. Even when it burned.

She made him promise, and as he spoke the oath, new shackles were laid down beneath his veins. 

...

It was very hard to keep his promise when she died. 

...

Years passed and Stiles learned to forget that there had ever been a time he was something more than human. Without his mom, he didn't spend time out in the forest. Tasting the rage of the ancient woods wasn't the same when he went alone. 

Still, once a year, on the anniversary of his mother's death, he would walk to the very end of the backyard, where he would take a leaf from the oleander tree. He would eat it slowly, savouring its flavour, and with every bite it would burn as it poisoned his human body. Stiles learnt to revel in the burn. It was the only reminder he had of what it was now that his mother was gone.

...

Stiles had been in control of what he was for his entire life. Nothing had ever happened to shake the iron grip he had on his soul; the strong hold he had on his physical self -- 

\-- until his best friend was bitten by Peter Hale, and there was a pack of werewolves in his life. Then -- well, then it became an almost daily struggle.

...

He had been doing so well. He had let the kanima's poison into his system. He had allowed himself to fumble around ignorantly, despite the fact the Other in him knew exactly what was going on. He had let Gerard take him, and bruise his skin. He had let himself feel genuine sadness while watching Lydia kiss Jackson. He had even managed to summon a certain level of grudging respect for Scott's plan. Every moment had been performed perfectly. He hadn't slipped at all. 

Weeks had passed and _he hadn't slipped_. 

He hadn't slipped... and then the alpha pack came. 

...

...

...

...

They decide to take him in the night. He is the human. The weakest and most vulnerable member of the pack. They decide the most strategic move against Derek is to steal him away and use him as leverage. 

Stiles lets them pull him from his bed. He pretends to be unconscious after they deliver a blow to his head, and he lets them string him up with rope like a gruesome puppet made from flesh and bone. He doesn't say a word while they wait, and wait, and wait for him to wake. And, when he _wakes_ he pretends to be disoriented and half way to delusional. 

He is human. 

He is human until Derek -- the stupid heroic fool -- decides to come for him, followed by the rest of the pack. He is human until Scott is bleeding from a wound in his chest, and Derek is lying broken on his side, his flanks heaving as his body tries to heal the damage that has been done. He is human until Erica screams, and Boyd cries in anguish. He is human until Isaac howls in pain. 

_He is human_ \--

\-- until he isn't human any more. 

The smile that burns across his face is filled with greedy pleasure at what is to come. His soul -- as it flutters from his mouth -- is tinged with furious red. 

The ropes part above him like they are nothing more than string; their black, burned ends melted from the heat of his skin. The bruise on his face mottles purple and green, and then fades entirely; healing in the time it takes him to fall to the ground.

He crouches where he falls, his muscles tense and ready to move, surveying the room. He wonders who will be the first to die. 

Derek notices him first. When he'd been flung on his side he'd fallen facing Stiles. His gaze is pained, and his eyes are clouded, but Stiles can see the moment when he realises that something has changed; when he realises that Stiles has somehow escaped his bonds. Derek lets out a soft whimper of worry, and Stiles grimaces as the alpha standing over him notices. Derek always cared more than he let on. 

The alpha turns to Stiles, a single eyebrow rising as she takes in his appearance. 

"Look who's going to play hero," she says mockingly, calling the other alphas' attention away from Stiles' friends. 

One by one they turn to look at Stiles, their expressions showing disdain; actively mocking the fury on Stiles face. 

"Run Stiles," croaks Scott, from the far side of the room, his gaze trained on Stiles as intensely as that of the alphas.

"Oh, yes. Please run, Stiles," says the female alpha standing by Derek. She grins viciously. "Please do run."

Stiles' mouth opened in a happy grin. "No," he says, simply. "No, I won't."

...

The female alpha is the first to fall. She dies with a whimper, not even sure what is happening. Stiles doesn't mourn her death, or regret that it happened too fast for her to register the pain. He is beyond such emotions. He doesn't care about anything; he doesn't want anything except to see each and every member of the alpha pack dead. 

The alpha female's heart pumps once, then twice, in Stiles palm before falling silent. Near Scott one of the alpha twins takes a sharp breath. 

He is the first to react -- the first to try and run -- so Stiles goes after him next.

Within moments Stiles has his fist buried in the alpha's soul.

The silver substance of his soul slides through Stiles' fist like thick mercury, and his hand slids upward through the alpha's chest until he finds the single solid place in his heart and his grip finds purchase. He doesn't even wait. The alpha has only one person loves, and Stiles doesn't care if he kills them too. 

He grips the chord that ties the soulmates together and wrenches it, dragging the alpha's soul from his chest. He grins as the alpha slumps to the ground. He laughs as the alpha's twin also dies. 

The soul writhes in his hand and Stiles carelessly brushes it to the ground. 

He lets the last alpha's heart pump once, twice, then he reaches out carelessly and snaps the thread that ties him to his fate. Fortunes wheel corrects itself abruptly as the death occurs. Stiles looks about the room, feeling a wild glee fill him as he sees his friends' futures stretch from minutes to years. 

None of them would die tonight. 

That was good.

...

His soul -- when he lets it back into his chest -- burns. It brings with it the shackles of his oath, and he can barely move for the pain seared into his bones. He crumbles to his knees; his head bowed.

The others are moving, taking slow tentative steps as their bodies fight the damage they've been dealt. 

Scott is the first to approach Stiles, his gaze wide and a little afraid. 

"Stiles?" he asks. "Is that you?"

Stiles lifts his head, and slowly moves his gaze to Scott. The human part of him rails at the terror he sees in his friend's eyes. The Other in him laughs. He tamps the Other down as firmly as he can. He is human now. 

"It's me," he says softly. 

"Oh," breaths Scott. "I wasn't sure."


End file.
